


Help Wanted

by AlphaStarr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bathroom Humor, Dark Comedy, Discussion of Major Character Death, Dubiously Responsible Dumbledore, Genuinely Repentant Grindelwald, Manipulative but Well-Meaning Dumbledore, Minor Character Death, Multi, Peter Pettigrew Isn't Evil Yet, Pranks and Japes, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-05 00:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15158267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: A quarter century after the position is jinxed, applicants to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts run drier than ever. The good news is that Headmaster Dumbledore happens to be acquainted with a qualified candidate seeking a career change. The bad news? The candidate in question is former Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald.OR: Dumbledore makes questionable choices when trying to hire DADA teachers. (At least this one's still better than Umbridge?) A Marauders' Era comedy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place somewhere around the school year of 1976-1977, which would coincide with the Marauders' sixth year. Definitely not canon-compliant, or anything particularly close to it. A few spoilers for Fantastic Beasts possibly(???) slipped past my notice, but I've done my best to keep it spoiler-free.
> 
> (I haven't written for this fandom since maybe 2006, whoops. I apologize for any important fandom-isms missed, and also, the lack of betas and Britpickers.)

It was the end of the school year once more, and just as it had been for nearly his entire tenure as headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore was in a Predicament-- namely, that he found himself once more in need of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Now, normally, such matters of business were not so severe as to warrant naming the Predicament with a capital P. Dumbledore had seen to the replacement of many, many teachers in his day-- hiring Professor Vector when Professor Abbott finally retired, deciding on Professor Sprout when Professor Thoren had that unfortunate incident with his Plutonian Pestrap. He had chosen Minerva McGonagall for his own successor to the post of Transfigurations teacher, and so far, all three had proven to be quite excellent professors.

No, the vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts position would not be a Predicament if not for one thing: it happened _every year_.

Back when Dumbledore first found the need to replace their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor-- Evangeline Brown had drowned while mediating a dispute amongst merfolk not even a decade after she'd taken up the post-- he had been approached by one Tom Riddle, seeking to apply a second time. The boy's credentials had been fairly good, although largely unsubstantiated, but Dumbledore felt ill at ease hiring the rising Dark Lord and chose instead to hire Lester Fortescue.

Really, it had only seemed like a stroke of odd luck at the time, but that very same year, Fortescue's son Florean founded his explosively popular ice-cream parlor, and the pressing financial burdens which had caused the Professor to emerge from retirement were immediately eased. As soon as all of his loans were paid off and his son was turning a sizable profit, Fortescue decided to retire to Bermuda. He would have lived the rest of his life in leisure had his boat not capsized in a storm, neither cargo nor crew ever seen again.

The next year, there was an ill-timed outbreak of the Dragon Pox, tearing through the staff and students alike. Professor Hopkirk, however, had the worst case of all-- and though he narrowly survived, the illness rendered him too feeble to continue teaching. The following decade held much of the same: Professor Halley resigning to join her family in America, Professor Prewett quitting over drama with the school board, Professor Valentin getting turned into a vampire over summer break.

The rumor started that the teaching position had been cursed or jinxed-- and, by the 60s, Albus Dumbledore was well inclined to believe it himself.

There were only _so many_  people willing to apply for a job popularly believed to be a bastion of doom upon all who held it-- and the population of unemployed, qualified wixen grew slimmer by the day, owing to the ever-increasing demand for active Aurors. Where such a post would have once evoked the attention of half a dozen applicants at least, nowadays Dumbledore counted himself lucky if he managed to get  _two_. The first of these, naturally, was usually a well-meaning witch or wizard who didn't believe it possible to jinx something as intangible as a teaching position.

The second applicant was always Lord Voldemort. The petty bastard even sent his resume with an increasingly lengthy list of his first-hand experience in the study of Dark Arts.

(Perhaps a bit childishly, Dumbledore found himself occasionally fantasizing about dumping the unopened application letter, resume and all, directly into the fireplace. Though he tempered his patience and never gave into the urge, the thought grew more tempting by the decade.)

And so, close to a quarter century after the position was jinxed, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore found himself in a Predicament-- that the well of applicants had finally run dry, and the only application he'd received at all that summer was the same one Voldemort always sent, by now more of a reminder of the jinx than an actual entreaty for the job. 

For one horrible, horrible minute, in one of his weakest moments in his life, Dumbledore genuinely considered it. Once upon a time, Tom Riddle had been the most highly-requested student tutor at Hogwarts, even the least intelligent of his allies managing to scrape by with a pass. The students were highly capable, and Voldemort would hardly take action against them with the rest of the staff still present. Maybe the position itself would just outright eliminate him, possible Horcruxes be damned, because the jinx was just that potent.

Then, immediately disgusted with himself for even _considering_ that it might be okay to let Voldemort teach at his school, even just one year, he sighed and decided to give up on paperwork for the night. His sense of judgement was clearly impaired by the late hour.

Adjusting his spectacles and offering Fawkes an affectionate scritch at the top of his head, Albus carefully weighed his prospects. Which ex-Auror or former student was he going to hunt down and entreat to be the newest professor? Which of them was best suited to deal with the imminent life-changing circumstances that naturally came with the position?

"What do you think, Fawkes?" Albus asked musingly, a twinkle in his eye. "Should I accept Voldemort's offer and hope his own jinx takes care of him within the year?"

Fawkes gave him an unimpressed look.

"I thought not," Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head. "I was hoping you would have a better idea. A suggestion, perhaps?"

Fawkes crooned and gave Dumbledore's office a sweep, his wings casting a light breeze midflight. He returned carrying Albus' night-cap, bright violet and betasseled.

"Yes, of course, you're right. It would be wisest to sleep on it and approach the issue in the morning with renewed energy," Dumbledore gave the phoenix a fond smile. "Your counsel is sound, as always."

Fawkes emitted a caw and returned to nesting on his perch, strongly suggesting that Albus do the same. Thus, quite tired from the day's work, Albus tapped his wand against the trick bookshelf which led to the Headmaster's private quarters, easing his unusually frayed nerves.

It was not often he found himself at a loss for patience, but the past week had been especially grueling-- Professor Davies had taken medical leave after stumbling into Filch's cache of dangerous confiscated prank supplies, Fanged Frisbees and Biting Teacups and a particularly volatile set of Gobstones filled with failed (and highly poisonous) potions. He'd awoken late one night to use the restroom only to mistake the locked closet for a jammed bathroom door, an incident which ultimately resulted in injury, poisoning, scarring, and teacups attached to _exceedingly_ uncomfortable places.

He was, at present, threatening to sue for improper disposal of contraband. The Hogwarts Board of Governors naturally decided that this was an excellent reason to write Headmaster Dumbledore twenty times per day every day, either attempting to consult him on every minuscule detail of updated school protocols or attempting to have him suspended from his position due to endangerment of students and faculty.

That was all very well and fine-- standard reactions to an accident on school grounds, really-- but Albus _did_ think it could wait three days for the end of term, particularly since he was still in the midst of personally marking the Defense Against the Dark Arts examinations in place of the professor who'd given the test. It would have been nice if Professor Davies had at least managed to _start_ grading before being hospitalized.

The Headmaster hummed musingly as he washed up for bed, his thoughts never  _truly_ quieting, not really. Even nearing a hundred years old, his mind never stopped buzzing with ideas, summoning to its forefront the ways he might be able to reach a solution at last.

Maybe he could call in a favor with his old friend Elphias Doge, even though he was somewhat underprepared, given that he'd only gotten an Acceptable on his Defense NEWTs eighty years ago. Molly Weasley was a strong contender as always, every bit as good as her older brothers and far less disorganized besides-- though, of course, there was the matter that her third child was due to arrive shortly, and she had two other small children to care for besides.

As he fixed himself a mugful of chamomile tea, he considered other wizards in his acquaintance: Fenwick and Dearborn who were already very busy active Aurors, Dedalus Diggle who had already survived one year as a DADA teacher and wasn't willing to try again. Moody was still needed in the field, and Augusta Longbottom would be barred by the Board at least until her son graduated. Even his brother Aberforth, an extremely able duelist in his own right, had turned down the request all three times Albus had tried to persuade him to teach the class even for just one year. (He'd cited his poor public speaking skills as an excuse, which Albus privately agreed might be a bit hard on the students.)

Even as his head hit the pillow, his thoughts danced and wandered through the halls of his mind, attempting to reach a conclusion therein. There was simply no other way to describe the type of corundum severe enough to keep him awake-- Albus Dumbledore was in a Predicament.

* * *

"So," began Gellert Grindelwald, former Dark Lord and longtime resident of Nurmengard prison. "Let me clarify. You organized a list of every witch or wizard qualified to teach at your school, and spent the last several weeks asking each one of them if they would like to take a teaching position. You are visiting me in person for the first time in thirty years because of this."

"My apologies. I wasn't aware that you would have liked me to pay a visit sooner," Albus turned his head to the side, bemused. "We've been maintaining a correspondence since nearly the beginning of your stay... I rather thought you'd ask if you wished to meet in person."

"That's beside the point!" Grindelwald scoffed. "You are here to ask me, the most fearsome Dark Lord in history, to come and teach classes in Defense Against the Dark Arts at your school. Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Quite possibly, depending on who you ask," Albus smiled pleasantly. He held a small, wax-paper bag in Gellert's direction. "Sherbet lemon?"

"You're mad," Grindelwald cast him a wary look, but accepted the package despite lacking Albus' sweet tooth. The food he received in Nurmengard was edible, to be sure, but it had been too long since he'd eaten something with actual flavor.

Albus hummed. "My brother would be inclined to agree with you on that. He broke my nose again, you know. One would think that he'd grow out of doing it more than seventy years after the first time."

"So you came, despite knowing how much your brother disapproves?"

"Oh yes. The Deputy Headmistress had a thing or two to say about it, as well," Albus chuckled, unduly amused. "But even after I told him you were the next person I was planning to ask, Aberforth still turned down the job for the fourth time. One must suppose that he doesn't disapprove badly enough to agree to take the position himself."

"Hm," Grindelwald narrowed his eyes, as if scrutinizing the offer-- or, perhaps, attempting to figure out if Dumbledore was mad indeed. "You never would have asked _me_ , of all people, for reasons as flimsy as a lack of other candidates."

"No?" Albus' eyes twinkled knowingly. "I've written you about how the job is almost certainly jinxed. Is it so hard to believe that most people aren't willing to risk their livelihoods to teach schoolchildren?" 

Grindelwald snorted, as he were trying to keep himself from laughing at a particularly funny joke. "Don't insult my intelligence, Albus. I've no doubt that your choices are slim, but not _that_ slim."

"Over five hundred letters of refusal would suggest otherwise," Dumbledore answered, and the twinkle in his eyes became the gleam of steel. "You know why I've come-- at least an inkling of it. I had hoped to keep the conversation pleasant, at least."

"Necessary conversations are rarely pleasant," Grindelwald replied, sharp. He placed a sherbet lemon in his mouth and sucked on it, hard. "I receive newspapers, sometimes. I know there is another Dark Lord rising in Britain even as we speak. Another war is on the horizon. It may even be already here."

"It is here, or as good as," admitted Dumbledore. "Voldemort is gaining power, killing and torturing Muggles in cold blood. His followers are in the Ministry, in the streets... even among the students of Hogwarts themselves."

"Is that what you want me to be?" Grindelwald laughed humorlessly. "A lesson in how practicing the dark arts can go horribly wrong?"

"Do you believe it, then?" Albus said, so softly that it was nearly a whisper. "Do you truly believe it went wrong?"

"Obviously it did. I'm condemned to lifetime incarceration in a prison of my own making," Grindelwald scoffed. He shook his head, "I will not say that I have ceased believing in all of the ideals I fought for. Some, perhaps, but not all. But the majority necessarily dictates what is wrong, what is right, what is _acceptable_ in which societies. In practicing the Dark Arts, I perhaps... _alienated_  worthy allies, and teachers kinder than Nurmengard."

He met Albus' eyes for a moment, then flicked his gaze away.

Albus swallowed and repeated, "Perhaps."

"So, then, you _do_ want me to be a lesson." Not even the lemon candy could take the bitterness out of those words.

"To an extent," Dumbledore lowered his eyes. "A headmaster has ears in all corners of the castle. I hear that the students believe Voldemort aims to finish what you started-- that his name will go down in history as the most powerful dark wizard who ever lived."

The very thought rankled what little pride Grindelwald still had left. "That's what they say, is it?"

"It is. But I disagree," Albus took a deep breath, and smiled. "The students in question, you must understand... they're fairly young. No older than you and I were, when we first met. They have a poor grasp of what it means to join the ranks of a Dark Lord, and possess a largely self-taught knowledge of what Dark Arts actually entail-- likely owing to the scarcity of able teachers, I'm afraid."

Gellert's dulled eyes suddenly came alive with a certain sadistic glee. "You want me to _scare_ your students away from the Dark Arts."

"Only a little bit. Non-dangerously," Dumbledore was hasty to add. "It would be ideal if you could avoid casting any spells at all on the students themselves, really. Just a few classes covering material that could make someone think twice about pledging their allegiance to dark lords in general, along with how to defend oneself against such things?"

"No, no. Let me relish this moment," Grindelwald laughed, then, the same real, full laugh that had haunted Albus since the summer of 1899. "This is a joke, isn't it? Headmaster Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, Order of Merlin First Class, coming all the way to Nurmengard to ask me to frighten schoolchildren into behaving. In case you have forgotten, I'm not the  _Butzemann_."

"Not at all," Dumbledore smiled merrily. "Hogwarts isn't in the habit of hiring bogeymen to teach, although there _is_ one professor who is a ghost. Intelligent, qualified wizards, on the other hand, are in short supply. In fact, I've already cleared it with the International Confederation of Wizards."

"Ha!" A mocking amusement danced across Grindelwald's features. "You're lying."

"I'm really not," Albus insisted, withdrawing a set of papers from his robe. "They've agreed on a sort of parole for your exemplary behavior while incarcerated-- on the condition of accepting the job, naturally. You may read the agreement for yourself, if you wish."

"Truly?" Now, curiosity took hold. "How did you get them to agree?"

"I told them that if any one of them wanted to volunteer instead, they could." Brief worry crossed Albus' expression. "The jinx is fairly infamous by now. You should be careful, if you choose to accept."

"I see," Grindelwald's lips thinned. "It's true, it isn't like you to voluntarily offer poison."

"Only when there is no other alternative," Albus redirected his eyes to the room's only window, small and barred shut. "I have had curse-breakers and professors alike attempt to end the jinx. I've even attempted to break it myself, to no avail. I confess... if I were younger, I would have found it infuriating."

"So you thought to throw me into the line of fire?" Grindelwald smiled wryly. "And here I thought you considered us friends again."

"I thought perhaps another perspective was necessary," Albus chuckled slightly at the expression. "I can't imagine a more knowledgeable expert in infuriating jinxes-- former dark lord or not, I feel that you are still a better wizard than Voldemort will ever be."

The smile fell from Gellert's eyes. "I can't imagine why you'd believe that, after everything I've done."

"You stayed," Albus clasped Gellert's hands in both of his own. "Whatever you may think of me, Gellert... I'm not blind. Not anymore."

"You could have fooled me," Grindelwald narrowed his eyes slightly. "I spent the better part of twenty years disassembling the wards you left on this place, in addition to the ones I placed originally. It would have still taken half that if I'd managed to get my hands on a wand."

"I'm a bit disappointed in myself, actually. I had been hoping to keep you entertained for half a century at least," Dumbledore released his hands. "But you stayed."

"I did," Grindelwald acquiesced. "After I realized why, exactly, you chose Nurmengard."

"Other than the fact that it was the most secure prison in the world?"

"Flattery doesn't suit you, Albus," Gellert pinned him with a wry smile, so familiar that Dumbledore couldn't help but envision him eighty years younger. "I ruled out poetic justice within a fortnight. It was too much the cliché. When I started wandlessly disassembling the wards, I liked to pretend that you had chosen it because you knew I could still escape. But you are too responsible for that, too invested in what you believe to be the greater good, even now. And then, there was a time where I thought it wasn't me you wanted to keep in-- but to scare away those who would come seeking revenge."

"And what did you decide?" Albus asked patiently.

"Nurmengard was built to house my own enemies," said Gellert. "Nothing more."

"So it was," Dumbledore agreed amicably, as if he weren't speaking of imprisoning a man who had once been his dearest friend. He folded his hands over his beard, "If you choose not to accept the offer, it is regrettable, but I would understand. I should think that most men of our age prefer to avoid the trouble of moving house... it _does_ seem like a dreadful undertaking; I myself can scarcely imagine having to move out of Hogwarts upon retirement."

"You sentimental old fool," Grindelwald grunted, an entirely unwelcome sentiment welling up in his own chest. "Fine, leave the papers here. I'll think about it."

Albus beamed at him, then. His choice was already made.


	2. Chapter 2

Thus it came to be that Hogwarts' Headmaster indeed made good on his promise to find a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor before the summer was through, much to the shock of England's wizarding public. Newspapers plastered the story on every page, rumors spread rampantly on every street corner, and Rita Skeeter-- rising journalist extraordinaire-- wrote a six-page gossip article which the proprietors of Witch Weekly were so kind as to publish in color.

It must be said, at this point, that Euphemia Potter was not normally a nervous sort of woman, nor was she usually the sort to believe in baseless rumor. Her only significant shortcomings, indeed, were that she had been a particularly mischievous prankster in her own Hogwarts years and perhaps doted a little _too_ much on the beloved son who had quite taken after her in that regard.

However, the gossip which had reached her ears was especially alarming this year, the sort which had prompted the family to dispatch a letter directly to Headmaster Dumbledore himself. There was, by now, so much conflicting information surrounding the matter in the press that one couldn't be entirely sure what was true anymore-- The Daily Prophet alone had published everything from Dumbledore's original vague press statement to editorials about how he must be Imperiused, or only threatening to hire him in order to drum up more interest in the position.

There was even speculation that he'd been forced to turn to older (and more dubious) friends for assistance in fighting the new threat of You-Know-Who, purportedly a longtime applicant to the position himself. People were talking about how it was only a matter of time before the rising Dark Lord got the job he had so long wished for.

As it considered the health and safety of her only son, Euphemia Potter could not bear to read the letter containing the headmaster's reply-- bold as he had ever been, she wasn't young anymore, and she was uncertain her heart could take it.

Fleamont Potter was, at times, said to be a man prone to occasional bouts of vanity, who perhaps doted a little _too_ much on the beloved son who had quite taken after him in looks. But whatever else might be said of him, he was still a born Potter, brave to the core. He opened the envelope and read it.

"Well?" his wife asked, fidgeting over the breakfast table.

"Well, the good news is that the new teacher's not Voldemort," Fleamont said at last.

"And," Euphemia prodded. "The bad news?"

"The bad news is that he's Gellert _blasted_ Grindelwald, which is pretty much the next worst thing!" Fleamont cursed colorfully for a moment. "What are we going to do?"

"There must be something," Euphemia insisted. "You took NEWT-level Defense, didn't you?"

"If I could apply, I would've done it years ago," Fleamont put the letter down and began to pace. "Educational Decree No. 10, they passed it after Headmaster Black made his own daughter Head Girl. Parents, guardians, and immediate relatives can't apply to positions at Hogwarts while their children are in attendance, though they can keep jobs they had prior to their children attending. Damn useless rule."

"Maybe... you and I, we have all of the essential NEWTs between us," Euphemia looked thoughtful. "We might be able to pull him out of school, for homeschooling."

"Away from his friends?" Fleamont raised his eyebrows. "You think James would agree to that?"

"Well... no," she admitted. "But it's worth asking."

Fleamont sighed, "You're right that there aren't really any better options-- Dumbledore even wrote that he asked every qualified wizard in Britain, and a hundred more internationally."

"So," Euphemia glanced away. "Do you want to ask him, or should I?"

"If you don't mind... I _do_ suspect James would be upset with me for bringing it up," Fleamont admitted. "He has a soft spot for you, though-- he takes after me like that."

"Charmer," Euphemia accused, her lips quirking upwards in a smile. "Fine, I'll take this one. And... I feel a bit bad about it, but..."

"Yes, of course," Fleamont followed her thoughts completely. "Tell Sirius that if his so-called _relatives_ try to pull anything funny with _Grindelwald_ in the school, we'll gladly homeschool him, too. All he has to do is ask."

Euphemia applied an affectionate peck to her husband's cheek before ascending the stairway of their home, locating their son's bedroom. She rapped her knuckles against the door twice.

"James? Sirius?" She called through the door, "I'd like to have a word with you boys!"

There was the sound of papers frantically scuffling within, and then the door came open. Sirius leaned against the doorframe, his stature blocking her view within.

"Good morning, Mrs. Potter. Looking as lovely as usual, I see," he plied her with his most charming smile, and Euphemia immediately knew that something was up. She hadn't been the best prankster of her age for nothing.

"Good morning, Sirius. I was just hoping I could ask something of you and my son," she answered pleasantly, stepping to the side.

Sirius leaned to block her, which only served to compound her suspicions. "What? Is something the matter? If Mr. Potter found out that you put sugar in the salt shaker, I'm afraid we can't take the credit for your excellent prank-- got James and I last night, by the way."

"Ah, so that's where the leftover gratin went," Euphemia gave him a knowing look. She peered over his shoulder, "James?"

"Mum," James popped in behind his best friend, smiling crookedly. "Good morning."

Euphemia steeled herself to be as strict as possible. "James, your father and I had a talk this morning regarding the new professor at Hogwarts. We think it's best for you to stay at home this year."

James's smile faltered. "Mum, I can't _not_ go back to school."

Sirius snickered, "Never thought I'd hear you say those words."

"I'm serious," said James unthinkingly.

Sirius grinned, and opened his mouth to recite his most favorite joke.

"No, _he's_  Sirius," Euphemia chorused along without even thinking about it. Then, more sternly, "You're not going back to school this year. Not with the darkest wizard of our time in a teaching position!"

"There's people there who don't have anywhere else to go... I can't just abandon them. They need everyone they can to make sure he wasn't just lying about being reformed," James supplied. "Dumbledore wouldn't have hired him if he thought anyone might _really_ get hurt, anyways, and someone's got to help keep an eye out. It's a matter of principle."

"Sirius is welcome to join us if he wishes," Euphemia added helpfully, in case it was concern over his best friend that drove his complaint.

"Sorry, Mrs. P, my family's making me go to Hogwarts. They're threatening to call the Aurors for truancy if I try to skip," Sirius rolled his eyes, but he couldn't conceal the bitterness in his tone. "My parents actually approve of _Professor Grindelwald_. Dearest Reggie writes that he's beside himself with excitement; he's hoping he can get his textbook signed."

"It's not just Sirius, either," James entreated her desperately. "Loads of students. Kids whose parents can't homeschool them, who don't speak enough French to transfer to Beauxbatons or can't afford the trip overseas. And especially Muggleborns, whose parents wouldn't even know what terrible things Grindelwald did to get locked up, who aren't willing to spend a year at Muggle school because they'd be too behind to ever catch up."

"You mean _Lily Evans_ ," Sirius teased, with a conspiratorial wink in Euphemia's direction.

"Oh, I see," and in spite of herself, a smile stole onto her face. "It's about a girl, is it?"

"Jamesie's got it bad, Mrs. Potter," Sirius shamelessly divulged. "Writes poetry to her by moonlight, passed his Charms OWLs just to get to spend an extra hour with her every other day--"

"Quit it, Padfoot, it's not like that," James elbowed him, irrevocably proving that it was indeed  _like that_. "I knew I should've written Remus instead."

"You know you can't live without me," Sirius grinned. He clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon, Prongs, it's your mum. Euphemia Potter née Gibbon, notoriously once transfigured Dumbledore's beard into cotton candy?"

"That was an accident," she maintained, "I was aiming for his hat."

"See? What'd I tell you, you've got the coolest mum ever." Sirius shrugged at his best friend, "I think you should show her."

"Traitor," James sighed, but nevertheless backed up and let her into his room. His desk, normally tidy from how little it was used, was now scattered with open textbooks and half-written letters and a massive pinboard that was more than likely (illegally) Transfigured.

As Euphemia Potter looked on, she felt a swell of maternal pride.

"Well, boys," she beamed, feeling much younger than her sixty-three years. "I think it's time for you both to get dressed. James, I'll let your father know we're going out this afternoon-- we're overdue for a trip to Zonko's, after all."

* * *

September first came with much fanfare, the likes of which Grindelwald had been assured (repeatedly) were merely Hogwarts tradition and unrelated to his employment there. Compared to the austere opening ceremony at Durmstrang-- all necessary speeches and rule reminders conducted while the students were lined up, standing on their feet until they were dismissed for the evening meal-- Hogwarts' start-of-term feast was very nearly a party.

Students came in and sat down at their tables, followed by the first-years arriving into a world of pure magic. The ceiling was magnificent, Grindelwald had to admit, and wondered if Albus would let him have a look at the charms. 

"Before we begin, I would like to start with a few reminders. First years-- and those of you in years above-- please bear in mind that the Forbidden Forest on the edge of school grounds is, as its name might suggest, forbidden," Albus announced pleasantly, eliciting a few snickers. "Furthermore, after Professor Davies' unfortunate accident last year, I would like to remind you all that lists of contraband prank supplies are posted in every common room, as well as outside the caretaker's office. Please do limit all gambols, japes, and practical jokes to objects which are _not_ on the list. Thank you."

Someone at the Gryffindor table booed, only to hush when the Head of House suddenly turned and pinned them with a freezing stare. Then, the Sorting began, and after a few additional words (" _footprint, hamper, piccolo, ague_ "), the feast began in truth.

Seated ominously at Dumbledore's left, as most other teachers refused to sit beside him, the former Dark Lord scrutinized the student body. It was readily apparent that more than a few students had withdrawn from classes that year, the swell of green ties overwhelming the other three colors. If he ever decided to break the terms of his parole, it was nice to know there were about a hundred pureblood sycophants-in-training tidily marked out in green and silver.

Minerva McGonagall glared at him from where she sat on Dumbledore's opposite side, knowingly enough that Grindelwald had to double-check that his Occlumency shields were still up. Then, realizing that deliberately hiding his mind would be counterproductive (as he wasn't actually planning to ruin his parole, especially not so early in the year), he lowered his shields with a deliberate cautiousness.

A look of surprise crossed Albus' features for a moment.

"Albus?" Minerva asked, sending another scathing glare in Grindelwald's direction as if it were his fault. (Which, in her defense, it sort of was.)

He broke out into a merry grin. "I was just thinking that it was about to be a very interesting year."

"Interesting year, indeed," her lips pressed together, thin. "Don't you suppose you should say something to the students?"

"Does something more need to be said?" Albus turned his head inquisitively. "... I do hope I remembered to say 'ague.' The other three words just aren't the same without it."

"Of course you did. The ague, being your conclusion, bears more consideration than the other three combined," Grindelwald remarked. Clearly, Albus' glowing praise of McGonagall's intellect had been lacking. He deigned to explain, "It is the entire purpose of my being here."

"You approve of the word choice, then?" Albus seemed entirely too pleased.

"A bit too succinct, given the audience," and here Grindelwald shot a disappointed look at McGonagall, "but altogether, perfectly cohesive. You must have spent hours trying to decide between _piccolo_ and _harpsichord_."

"I'm afraid the students are unlikely to pay attention to anything longer," Albus professed. Then, a bit absently, "Minerva, do you suppose I should have gone with _harpsichord_ after all? You're right, of course, a certain something does indeed get lost with _piccolo_."

With increasing concern, McGonagall finally understood how her most trusted friend, respected colleague, and one-time favorite professor could have possibly been so close to the darkest wizard of his age. Her glare turned positively scathing, "I meant about the new staff member, Albus."

Albus blinked, utterly perplexed, as if it had never occurred to him that his speech _could_ be about anything other than the erumpent in the room. "Well, I would be happy to allow him to introduce himself after the feast, if he so chooses."

"I would find that agreeable," Grindelwald cast a challenging glance in Minerva's direction. To this, she had no reply.

After a moment, he decided that starting in on the soup was more important than the Deputy Head disliking him. He'd had worse receptions before, and at least her reaction hadn't been to Stupefy him on sight. It had been years since he'd been around food which smelled so good, and even longer since the last time he'd been allowed to taste it. In this regard, at least, he was inclined to make the most of his situation-- and as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Albus was beaming at him and nattering on about knitting patterns, ladling out a bowl for each of them.

As usual, he drank little at first-- it had been so long since he'd developed the habit that he entirely forgot it had originally been a test for poison in the height of his paranoid Dark Lord days. But the soup proved perhaps the best thing he'd tasted since before his imprisonment, and Albus seemed quite content to just eat and watch over his school, so he thought nothing of it. Pleasantly warm, and not just from the chicken and leek, he finished his soup with one large mouthful.

Something moved within his throat, then, seeming to come alive and move in all the most disconcerting ways. He retched violently, expelling the foreign object from his throat before it could choke him to death. The subsequent outpouring of soup had him scrambling to lift his napkin to his mouth and at least try to circumvent some of the mess.

Humiliated before his future students, Gellert would be ashamed to admit that his first thought was _Albus betrayed me_. He looked to the man in question, accusations already beginning to form in his mind, only to find him wearing an increasingly uncomfortable look himself, as if he were about to vomit.

Then, with watering eyes and the smallest gag he could muster, Headmaster Dumbledore delicately spat an impossibly large, live toad into the palm of his hand. It emitted a deep croak and then hopped from the Head Table, causing half a dozen other bowls of soup to turn into toads as well and setting the entire school off into pandemonium.

"Alas," coughed Albus, vaguely apologetic. "Teenagers."

Grindelwald swore fluently in Goblin and quickly cast a wandless _Tergeo_ , not at all keen on wearing part of his dinner. Everyone else at the Head Table began rousing themselves to bring order back to the Great Hall, McGonagall immediately confiscating the tureen of soup to have it inspected for tampering. Not even Dumbledore could bring about the peaceable camaraderie once more, unwilling enact a forcible _Silencio_ over a teenager's prank.

(The co-conspirators, unbeknownst to all, exchanged secret high-fives amidst the chaos. Mischief managed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Euphemia and Fleamont Potter are estimated to have died of Dragon Pox between 3 and 4 years after this chapter takes place. JKR's information suggests they were present at James and Lily's wedding, but perished before ever meeting their grandson.


	3. Chapter 3

Having had such a _warm_ welcome to the school, Grindelwald was expecting no better to come of the first class of the year.

He thought he could have tolerated the seventh year NEWT students, perhaps, as he doubted any  _complete_ imbeciles would have lasted out so long. In fact, provided none of them had any questions pertaining to his (failed) attempt at Muggle subjugation and life experiences as a (former) Dark Lord, he might go as far as to say he'd _enjoy_  a class with the Slytherins. He may have even been willing to put up with first years, who could at least be relied upon to quiver in their robes with fear and keep silent all class.

No, this year, September 2nd simply _had_ to fall on the least opportune weekday possible-- Grindelwald bemoaned Hogwarts' clumsy, weekday-based schedules. Whose idea had it been to start the year on September 1 regardless of what day of the week it might be?

(Grindelwald was certain they were long dead, which was a pity. Orchestrating the demise of a wizard so foul would have been a crime worth getting thrown back to Nurmengard.)

Instead, for the first class on his first day of teaching, Professor Gellert Grindelwald, former Dark Lord, was subject to a _double period_ \-- and not just any double period.

Double Defense Against the Dark Arts with the _sixth-years_.

It was a little known fact that Gellert Grindelwald, despite being well into his nineties, very acutely remembered what it had been like to be sixteen. After all, that was how old he'd been when he conducted the reckless, dark experiments which had gotten him expelled from Durmstrang. The same age he'd met red-haired Albus Dumbledore in the heat of late June and plotted to unite the Deathly Hallows. The same age he'd cast his first _Crucio_ , furious, without a second thought of the consequences it would bear on his life and on his soul.

In short: he knew that sixteen-year-olds thought themselves _invincible_.

Now, at this point, it must be noted that despite the unconventional circumstances of his employ, Headmaster Dumbledore had allowed the new Professor a surprising degree of freedom-- "Only be sure to cover what is mandatory for exams, and please do assign a textbook written in English. However much I enjoy Jakob Lundstrøm's works personally, most of the students cannot read Faroese."

There was a niggling voice in the back of his head that suggested it was perhaps a breach of conduct to use said freedom in certain more dubious manners.  But, of course, Grindelwald had never been particularly good at listening to that voice. (Perhaps that was why he so easily remembered being sixteen and invincible.)

He flicked his wrist in a practiced motion, the endeavor significantly easier to perform on a crowd of untested teenagers than the groups of trained Aurors he used to take down in his prime. Twenty-nine wands suddenly clattered to the floor, only Peter Pettigrew's remaining in possession of its owner... largely because it had been in his back pocket, and the spell had forcibly thrown his arse to the floor, wand and all.

"Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts," Grindelwald rasped sinisterly, flexing his fingers. With a simple _accio_ , all the wands gathered themselves in a line on his desk. "Today we will be covering an introduction to the first subject on your syllabus... _wandless magic_."

A few of the students exchanged uneasy looks, vulnerable without the wands they depended on constantly. It was a promising reaction.

"Take your seats," the Professor glowered when no further action seemed forthcoming. Certainly enough, the students scrambled for the desks, withdrawing quills and parchment for notes, nary a hushed whisper between them.

Satisfied with the results of his intimidation, Grindelwald opened up his lesson plan and started his lecture, "Most wizards and witches will find themselves at a loss upon being disarmed, but that was not always the case. Prior to the expansion of the Roman Empire--"

He found the rest of his sentence drowned out by an unnaturally loud fart.

Well, fine, he thought. Not everyone was lucky enough to digest gracefully, nor intelligent enough to remember that anti-bloating potions existed, much less that they were easy to brew.

Thus, he continued: "Prior to the expansion of the Roman Empire, most wizarding cultures worldwide--"

Here he was interrupted by another burst of flatulence among the students.

Grindelwald grit his teeth, "They widely practiced wandless magic. This subject is an introduction--"

Another loud squeak.

"-- an _introduction_ to the nonverbal jinxes you will be _tested on_ next year," Grindelwald hissed irritably, beginning to lose his temper. "So I _suggest_ you all pay _utmost attention_ to the material, because your _first quiz_ is in an hour!"

For a moment, there was blessed, blessed silence. And then, a red-haired girl near the front of the room slowly raised her hand.

"Yes," he scowled acridly. "You there. Girl."

"Lily Evans, _sir_ ," she lifted her chin, drawing attention to her Gryffindor tie. "How can you possibly quiz us? It's the first day of class. We haven't had time to study!"

"If you pay attention to the lecture, the quiz should be simple," he waved his hand dismissively. Then, turning to the board, he began to write out an incantation and its subsequent motion. "Although Europeans have a longstanding tradition of wand usage, they are a relatively recent introduction to most other parts of the world. In the Americas, wands have only been in popular use for roughly 350 years, and most wizarding communities of Africa still practice wandless magic almost exclusively. Even if the majority of you fail to cast a single nonverbal jinx, no student here can  _possibly_ be incompetent enough to miscast one of the simplest wandless spells--"

And then, the loudest, longest fart of all cut him off in the middle of his sentence. There was a muffled snicker from the back of the room.

" _You_ ," Grindelwald spat venomously, his patience snapping with a violent recoil. He raised his hands and all the desks, students still seated in them, parted way as the student in question was dragged to the front, desk and all. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Sirius Black grinned, slouching back in his chair belligerently, "I _told_ Peter not to take an extra serving of beans at breakfast."

"It wasn't me!" Pettigrew cried indignantly, popping out of his seat. "And it was _Remus_ who said that, not you."

Grindelwald narrowed his eyes at the little miscreant. "Well, if you see fit to laugh in my class, you must know the material already. I see no reason why you should not be allowed to quiz early. What are the three Cs of performing a wandless spell?"

"Hmmm," Sirius rubbed his chin, turning his face to the side and pretending to be deep in thought. With the eye not facing the Professor, he winked. "Can it be Cardamom, Cumin, and Coriander? Or... are those the three Cs of Mrs. Potter's homemade curry I'm thinking?"

Grindelwald scowled, "Can someone here tell me the _correct_ answer?"

"Aw, Grindy, you don't know either?" Black batted his eyes up at the professor almost _mockingly_.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor, and more if you continue your sass," Grindelwald replied without missing a beat. He cast a glare around the room. "No answers?"

Lily Evans' hand shot up, narrowly missing Marlene McKinnon's ear.

"Evans," he selected tersely.

"They refer to the Concentration, Clarity, and Channeling of your magic," she replied boldly. "They're listed and described on page 54."

"Five points back to Gryffindor for your correct answer, Ms. Evans. Your peers would do well to remember that, as it's _on your quiz_ ," Grindelwald lowered his hands, and all the desks save for Sirius's returned to their previous positions. "You, boy. What is your name?"

"Severus Snape," Sirius replied.

"He tells falsehoods, sir!" shouted a boy further back, so angry that his greasy hair stuck to his red face. "His name is _Sirius Black_."

"No," said Sirius, schooling his face into an expression of solemnity. "I'm Severus Snape. Quit joking, James, who in their right mind would name a child _Sirius_?"

"My name," he hissed venomously back, "Is not James. _I'm_ Severus Snape, professor. Don't believe this miscreant."

"No, I'm Severus Snape," the real James raised his hand. "You're pronouncing his name wrong. _He's_ SEV-erus Snape. _I'm_ Sever-US Snape."

"You're pronouncing those exactly the same, Potter! I should know, it's _my_ name!"

"Obviously not. Can't you tell the difference?" Potter looked at him, feigning reproach. "You've been going to school with us for _five years_ , James."

This being his first day of teaching, Grindelwald had absolutely no idea who any of these students were. Worse yet, he had not even the advantage given other Defense professors in the form of warnings from his peers (largely because he was a former megalomaniacal Dark Lord and none of them wanted to talk to him). At last, with a vindictive irritation, he Conjured a dunce cap for the primary offender, and returned to his lesson.

The quiz that began an hour later was a simple one, all things considered-- three questions, one of which the students already knew to be coming, and a practical application that he himself had mastered at the tender age of thirteen.

"One at a time," he instructed, "I will call your names from the attendance list. You will be summoning your wands from my desk."

A Ravenclaw gasped, unable to control their rising panic. "On the first day? What happens if we fail??"

Grindelwald pinned them with an icy look, "Then you do not get your wands back until you succeed."

Miss Evans' hand shot up, but she didn't wait to be called on before protesting, "But what about our other classes? We can't participate in those without a wand!"

"That should be sufficient enough motivation that the Clarity of your intent will be unmistakable," Grindelwald replied, frankly not seeing any problem whatsoever with his methods. "As beginners, you will only need to focus on Concentrating and Channeling your magic. How fortunate for you."

She seemed immensely put out, looking longingly at where her wand still rested on the teacher's desk.

Although most students completed the quiz without serious issue, not one of them was ultimately capable of summoning their wand, even under the threat that they would not be receiving them back at the end of class. Miss Evans had put up the most admirable attempt, managing to make hers move far enough that it clattered off the desk and onto the floor, but the next best students only succeeded at making them move two or three inches from where they were evenly lined up.  Much to his despair, most of the sixth-years were utterly incapable of convincing theirs to so much as budge.

Wizarding power had truly fallen into decline, he realized, if not even NEWT-level students could wandlessly summon an object they must have wanted back very, very badly.

Last of all, dreading the inevitable conclusion, Grindelwald called Severus Snape up to quiz. Predictably, the same three boys from before all showed up, though only the one with greasy hair and a hooked nose had any success at all with summoning the wand in question. It was only lucky that all three of them seemed to be taking this part of the class seriously, none particularly wishing to go without a wand until their next DADA class.

In the end, wholly exasperated with teenagers these days, Professor Grindelwald only kept the wands whose owners had been unable to move them at all, allowing even the marginally successful students to take theirs back. He locked them, Muggle-style, in the bottom drawer of his desk-- if they could not even summon objects right before their eyes without a wand, then an alohamora would be completely impossible for this hopeless crowd.

He dismissed the class, several students glancing back forlornly, as if debating whether or not they should stay behind and ask for another try. Grindelwald's forbidding glare, however, shooed most of them away... and only the glint of a shiny prefect's badge caught his eye at the last moment.

"Prefect, you," he gestured to the boy. "Stay after class a minute."

"Yes, professor?" the student questioned mildly.

He'd been quiet and well-behaved all class, Grindelwald reasoned. Typical teacher's pet. Surely he would at last get an accurate answer to the question which had been plaguing him all morning: "Which one of those boys is _actually_ Severus Snape?"

Said the prefect, completely straight-faced, "All of them, sir."

Grindelwald arched an eyebrow at him, dubious. "All of them."

"Yes," the prefect answered. He supplied helpfully, "It's a very common name."

"Three boys all named Severus Snape in the same year at school." Grindelwald glowered ominously, "You can't be serious."

And, with all the strict propriety his position implied, the prefect responded: "No, sir, I'm Lupin. Remus Lupin. I don't mean to ask questions... but who in their right mind would name a child _Sirius_?"

"Get out of my classroom," said Grindelwald in lieu of a reply, his tone deadly and low.

Lupin crossed to the other side of the doorframe and added, politely, "I look forward to class next Tuesday, sir."

Grindelwald promptly shut the door behind him, suddenly grateful that he had a free period scheduled until lunchtime. After dealing with the incredible stupidity and frustration of his sixth-year class, he was in no fit state to handle further idiocy among Hogwarts' students, sorely tempted to light the entire school on fire and escape into the vast unknown. Had he been fifty years younger, he would have no doubt already done it.

But, no-- this was his penance for the crimes of his past, these were the terms of his parole. He refused to betray Albus' trust (again), to make it up to his old friend if nothing else. It was that thought which tempered his patience, and he leaned against his desk, taking slow, even breaths. At last, he collapsed into his chair, already feeling a headache begin to bud at his temples. 

A loud, exceedingly deep fart promptly rang throughout the room.

Flying into a rage at the noise which had started it all, the professor leaped up and searched for its source. He lifted the Muggle-made whoopee cushion from his chair.

And then, for the first time since he'd last suffered through the Cruciatus curse, Grindelwald gave into the urge to scream.

* * *

"So," said James Potter, waiting casually in the hall adjacent. "Do you think we got 'im?"

"I'm inclined to say so," Lupin nodded sagely, turning his head to the side. "Padfoot?"

"Oh yeah, we got him good," Sirius cackled with glee. "I didn't know ol' Grindy had such a set of lungs! This is gonna be _amazing_."

"I-it's all thanks to the preparation," Peter added hurriedly, trying not to get left out of the conversation. "Planting all the important things last night, I mean."

"Putting the cushions under the desk legs, switching out the class roster," James smirked. "I guess it's a good thing Wormy didn't get into NEWT-level Defense after all, so there were still the right number of people in class even after we got rid of Padfoot's name."

"Did you hear that, Wormtail?" Sirius gasped, teasing. "You were helpful for once!"

Remus laughed heartily, "Really, though, I'm sure they both mean they appreciate you showing up to attend a class you're not even signed on for."

Pettigrew laughed nervously, "It's fine. I mean... it's not really like I have anything better to do during that class period? I'm only in three NEWT classes, so..."

"So you're the lucky one with all the free time in the world," Sirius groaned. "A whole day in the middle of the week, completely free! I'm off to Care of Magical Creatures after lunch, Moony's got Herbology or some other tripe--"

"Herbology is important," Remus replied placidly. "Besides, James is free this afternoon, right? You can work out how, exactly, we're planning to to get away with it once Grindelwald finds out who you _really_ are."

"Sorry, mates, it'll have to wait for tonight," James chuckled. "McGonagall wants to see me about Quidditch tryouts so Gryffindor can reserve the pitch."

"That's too bad," Peter seemed disappointed for a moment. Then, with a beady gleam in his eyes, "But did you see his face when he totally gave up? It was almost better than when he threw up a frog last night!"

"I'm going to have the dunce cap enshrined," Sirius proclaimed merrily, and the four boys proceeded into the Great Hall, hoping to hatch up a brand new prank by the end of lunch. No Dark Lord would last long at Hogwarts-- not while the Marauders still lived and breathed.


	4. Chapter 4

Needless to say, Professor Grindelwald's teaching situation did not improve.

By the time Easter Holidays crept around, Grindelwald no longer wondered how Albus Dumbledore had been able to defeat him in their famous duel back in 1945. At that point in time, Albus had survived teaching magical students for near forty years, an endeavor sure to hone anyone's patience and reflexes razor-sharp.

It was one thing to sway the hearts and minds of fully-grown wizards and witches who knew what they were doing, to battle skilled Aurors seeking to bring him to punishment for his crimes. It was quite another to teach at a school, each student a source of potentially powerful magic but lacking the knowledge, practice, or finesse to carry through their intentions perfectly each time. Add to that the spontaneous creativity of youth, the vicious recklessness of teenagers, and some very dangerous spells-- indeed, the question was no longer about why they couldn't hold a DADA professor for more than one year, but rather how the other professors managed to stay on for _more than_ one year.

The worst part about it, perhaps, was that Albus Dumbledore seemed to take the insanity completely in stride, borderline _encouraging_ it at times. Each time Gellert had posted a complaint, each time using that pitiful expression that had worked so well on Albus when they were younger, he found himself met with sympathy, but ultimately, no assistance.

"Your students," Grindelwald hissed irritably, gesturing violently at his quarters. "How did they even get in here? It's warded almost as well as Nurmengard!"

"Goodness," Albus had blinked with little more than a bit of bemusement. "I've rarely never seen so much candy floss in one place before, not since 1925 at the very latest. At least we may pin down the culprits as excellent Transfigurers. Have you tasted any?"

"Have I _tasted any_?" Grindelwald repeated incredulously. "I returned to my rooms after a long day of teaching classes and I found all the furniture transfigured into candy floss. I sent an elf for you after none of the usual reversion spells worked, of course I haven't tasted any!"

Much to his horror, Dumbledore proceeded to pull a small pink tuft from the upholstery and carefully place it on its tongue. "Ah, raspberry."

"You're mad," replied Grindelwald, with the mild tone of someone discovering an interesting fact. "You've gone completely and utterly mad."

"Perhaps indeed, but let me assure you that there is a method to my madness," Albus smiled pleasantly. "In the year of 1921, I had a most talented student by the name of Euphemia Gibbon who turned my beard into candy floss. My most favorite flavor, in fact... raspberry. I do believe it was an accident, as the spell was meant for my hat, and fabric-to-fairyfloss is a little-known Transfiguration spell. Nevertheless, the usual methods refused to turn it back, and for the first time since I'd started growing a beard, I was obligated to remove it and start over. Some years later, one of her friends repeated the prank with Headmaster Dippet's wardrobe."

"Fascinating anecdote," Grindelwald replied. "How do I _fix it_?"

Albus looked faintly sympathetic. "As you may have already figured out, the spell in question is not at all simple to reverse. I'll have to fetch Minerva from her office-- possibly Flitwick, as well-- and we would need a significant amount of beetle's eyes... I believe about eighteen pounds or so, give or take a bit, but of course, there is no way of measuring how much this room's furniture weighed before."

Grindelwald exhaled slightly, tension ebbing from his shoulders. "It is possible, then?"

"In general, yes," Albus' eyes glanced absently skyward. He raised his eyebrows, "However, in this particular case, I believe it's about to be impossible to do so."

"What, can one only complete the ritual on the night of a full moon?" Grindelwald snorted, bitterly sarcastic.

A deluge of water suddenly rained down from the ceiling, drenching both professors and completely dissolving every article of raspberry furniture.

"No," Dumbledore replied mildly, lowering his wand once he saw it was too late. "I'm afraid I'd just realized that your sitting room chandelier had been transfigured into a water fountain. Regrettably, the floss itself must be intact to transfigure it back."

Grindelwald cursed fluently for a moment. "Albus. How do you _live_ like this?"

"The same as any other man, I suspect," Dumbledore chuckled, vanishing away the raspberry-sugar puddles as best as he could. In spite of the Elder Wand's purported excellence, the room was sure to be left sticky and candy-scented for years. "The children _do_ make things more lively, I suppose."

"When I get my hands on the culprit--"

"You'll do no such thing," Albus lightly clapped Gellert on the shoulder. "I have a good idea of who performed the practical joke, but we mustn't act without proof."

"You have suspicions?" Grindelwald arched an eyebrow at him. The effect was somewhat lost when he was positively soaked.

"A few," Albus admitted, de-transfiguring the chandelier. "You see, Euphemia Gibbon-- caster of the candy floss spell which ultimately shaved my beard-- married a Mr. Fleamont Potter a few years after graduating Hogwarts. Their son, James, presently attends. You are already acquainted with him, I believe."

" _Too_ acquainted with him," Grindelwald snarled. "He's been spearheading this movement to make me victim of these practical jokes! Your plan failed, Dumbledore-- I'm a complete laughingstock."

"Truly? Some of the fifth-year OWL students came to me the other day to tell me that you were the best teacher they've ever had," and Albus, for his part, looked genuinely surprised. "Actually, I was hoping we could discuss the possibility of you staying on for another year."

"That is _exactly_ the problem," Grindelwald hissed. "Half the school believes me to be a joke, and half the school thinks I'm a _good teacher_. I don't know which is worse! What happened to the days people were too frightened to say my name? What happened to scaring students away from the dark arts?"

"Yes, it is a bit of a deviation from what I'd planned," Albus admitted, looking thoughtful. "But it could perhaps work out advantageously. It would embolden those who are already inclined to fight back against the new Dark Lord Voldemort, and perhaps, after a bit of comparison, those who wished once to join him will understand what I already know."

"What? That most Dark Lords are neither laughingstocks nor teachers?"

"That your ability to think of goodness is what makes you, ultimately, a better wizard," Albus closed his eyes and smiled. "In the past, you may have gone about trying to achieve it in exceptionally bad ways--"

"Ways I regret," Gellert clarified, glancing away from his friend's vulnerability. "One does not solve a puzzle by pummeling the pieces together through brute force, without a care of how they fit. It is a foolish endeavor, one which leaves more breakages than repairs. I've made a lot of mistakes, Albus."

"As have I, old friend."

"I'm quitting in June," Grindelwald informed him, as if he were but discussing the weather. "You should begin looking for my replacement."

"Really? I'm quite sorry to hear that," Dumbledore sighed and opened his eyes. "I'd been thinking of making James Potter the Head Boy next year. Perhaps it would give him a better outlet for his leadership skills than tormenting his professor."

"Do it," advised Grindelwald. He exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. "If he is half as much a pain in Voldemort's neck as he has been in mine, then you had best make him the leader of an entire thrice-damned _army_. And, Albus?"

"Yes?" he asked indulgently.

"If you have ever valued our friendship, you will never speak of what happened this year to anyone ever again."

"Consider it done, Gellert," Albus answered. "Come, then-- let us see if we can find something dry to change into, and then I can locate new lodgings for you until June. By the by, have you written job postings before? I'm hoping to write the next one to have a smidge more pizzazz than usual... we do need all the applicant we can get."

* * *

**20 Years Later**

* * *

It was the end of the school year once more, and just as it had been for nearly his entire tenure as headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore was in a Predicament-- namely, that he found himself once more in need of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

This was a Predicament compounded by several others, particularly that he was also presently dying from a curse laid upon one of Voldemort's Horcruxes and additionally attempting to put Hogwarts back to order after the debacle of Professor Umbridge's tenure as Defense professor.

She was a despicable woman by all accounts; not even the second-darkest wizard who had ever Dark-Lorded went so far as to depose of him as Headmaster, torture the students, and turn the sanctity that was Hogwarts into an indoctrinated state. Though Dumbledore was in no way under the illusion that Grindelwald had not enacted many of the same cruelties on the wizarding communities that fell under his control, there _was_ a subtle difference in committing crimes against humanity as a whole, and in committing those same crimes with the _specific_ target of children under one's guardianship. Not to mention, the students had learned virtually nothing throughout the year, Professor Umbridge going so far as to actually stand in the way of their education.

At least Grindelwald had made an attempt at actually teaching, however ill-sanctioned the material may have been.

By now, Albus Dumbledore had truly scraped the bottom of the barrel for candidates. In the past five years alone, he'd been forced to take on a megalomaniac pseudo-dictatorial Ministry official, a Death Eater in disguise as the most vigilant man Albus ever knew, an excellent teacher with the misfortune of also being a werewolf, a grossly underqualified celebrity writer prone to editing others' memories, and a former Muggle Studies teacher who'd left on sabbatical and somehow returned with  _Voldemort himself_  living in the back of his head.

(He did wish that the school board had let him keep Lupin. Really, all things considered, an appropriately medicated werewolf was easily the least dangerous of those options.)

Not even Voldemort made regular applications to the post of professor anymore, having presumably gotten his fill of teaching while possessing Quirrel. Not that Dumbledore would have really considered him, of course, but it was a certain sign of what dire straits there were.

And so, Dumbledore turned to his last remaining applicant, one he'd been reluctant to hire for a multitude of reasons. It was, in part, because he felt the man in question had a predisposition towards the Dark Arts that set Dumbledore ill at ease, but, well, he'd certainly hired worse in his time. More personally, indeed, he held the applicant firmly in his regard; he did not wish to lose the unique vantage he brought to the Light's side due to a cruel jinx the young Voldemort had laid on the position.

But there, with his own life in its last waning sliver, Dumbledore knew what he had to do.

"Severus Snape," he said thoughtfully, sucking on a sherbet lemon. "You're hired."

"Finally," Snape muttered, emitting an exhale of relief.

"But," Albus was quick to add. "Do ensure that when you are ousted from the position--"

" _If_ I am ousted from the position," Snape bristled. "You give the rumors of a jinx too much credibility."

"Jinx or not, I do believe it is a matter of _when_ ," Dumbledore assented, in lieu of trying to argue the point. "I see, at present, only three possibilities. The first, and least likely, that you fail to fulfill your Unbreakable Vow and subsequently die one year after its making, thus leaving me with an empty position yet again. The second, that you succeed, and Hogwarts remains secure against the Death Eaters, which would almost unquestionably result in Minerva becoming Headmistress and refusing to hire you a second year."

"And in the event that Death Eaters breach Hogwarts?" Snape inquired stiffly. "Would you have me abandon the school?"

"Not at all," replied Dumbledore, all solemnity. "I quite hope you will be made Headmaster yourself on such an occasion. In the event that Hogwarts is indeed taken over, I cannot imagine anyone I would rather have discreetly protecting the students from within the school. I believe that Voldemort's faith in your loyalty would offer them the greatest safety from further attack."

"Ah," Snape sullenly realized, the full picture at last coming into view.

"Yes, quite," smiled Dumbledore at last, peace settling within his old bones. "The time has come for a passing of the torch. I have utmost faith in you, Severus."

After dealing with the open Defense Against the Dark Arts position for over forty years, he finally felt at ease letting that chapter of his life come to an end. It was someone else's Predicament now.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite being described as rather emaciated, feeble, and sickly by the end of his life, I like to think that a great deal can happen to a person's health over the course of their last 21 years. Hence, this particular version of Grindelwald is still in good enough shape to teach classes and still has most of his teeth.


End file.
